


spinning in infinity

by freloux



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Duty of Care, F/M, Frottage, Kissing, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-02-29
Packaged: 2018-05-24 00:51:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6135778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freloux/pseuds/freloux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Incidents and accidents, hints and allegations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	spinning in infinity

Up in an old city where mysterious gods were worshipped with ancient hands. Stone columns that unfurl out of sight. Altars whose meanings have long since been lost. The two of them wander happily together, mostly just enjoying the silence and each other's company.

There are olive trees everywhere. Shade for a stony path that leads down to the shore. The beach is something out of a postcard: fine white sand and turquoise water. The Doctor takes off his shoes and socks and rolls up his trousers so he can wade in the water with her. Clara finally lies down on the sand, drowsy from the heat of the sun and the pleasant ache in her muscles from walking all day.

She must've fallen asleep because the next thing she's aware of is the Doctor carrying her, her head against his chest.

In and out of consciousness. His clamouring, restless hearts. A _vworp_ , _vworp_ noise that wakes her up, briefly - "mnuh?" "Shhh." Wrapped in a blanket, a swaying motion as the ship comes to life. In her - they're at her flat now? Carried to her room. Laid out on her bed. His hands, strong and secure. First at her left foot, then her right, as he takes off her shoes. Pulling the covers up around her.

Clara thinks she feels the brush of his lips on her hair.

Probably just her sleep-addled imagination.

***

She holds onto it for a long time: the memory of how nice he'd been. His arms around her. His hands on her body. Taking care of her. Clara attempts to focus on her class, but she can't: she's got this bluesy ache that starts somewhere near her heart before migrating lower to form a needy pulse.

Living for Wednesday. She always does, except this time it's a full-body gratitude when she finally sees the TARDIS tucked under the trees down by the edge of the village green. Worn blue wood, soothing and familiar. The Doctor still at the console. He showed up for her.

"I thought about - all day, at Coal Hill. How you - I just had to - " To do something in return. Acutely aware that she's invading his territory. He looks at her like an animal cornered.

Hand shaky at his zipper, pulling it down. Drawing him out like she's pulling him out of himself. She moans a little at the feel of him in her hand before kneeling and taking him into her mouth.

He edges back into the bank of the console. Palms spread flat. Gripping, opening and closing on nothing as she begins to suck. He's hot in her mouth: swollen head, ridged skin below. Sweet warmth, with a salty and slippery tang underneath. His legs are starting to shift restlessly, so Clara keeps one hand at the root of his cock and uses the other to scritch soothing patterns in the nest of hair under his navel, inhaling his sweaty soap smell.

He's whimpering - a high, keening noise she hadn't known he was capable of making. Voice unsteady. "Clara - please - stop - "

She pulls off and looks up at him. It's not enough for her, but it's going to have to be.

***

He shows up at her flat one morning. He does this sometimes - just appears. "Thought I'd drop by." Pushing past, making himself at home. She's long since given up on making excuses or trying to keep the place tidy 'just in case.'

What is he, her boyfriend?

In her flat. In _her_ territory. Tiny kitchen. Leaning against the counter. His body is slumped but he's still got height on her. Drinking tea - "I'm _not_ going to make it for you, Doctor - this isn't a diner" - while she's at her stove, making oatmeal. Raisins in the mix, swelling. Getting fat and soft. The Doctor still slurping his drink, a wet slick noise next to her that calls up things she's trying to ignore.

"We're friends, right?" Clara asks, continuing to stir her oatmeal.

He grunts and stares into his tea. Ok, so perhaps 'friend' isn't the right word for "angry Scottish alien and his tiny schoolteacher."

"And friends - or whatever we are - " she adds quickly, sensing his discomfort, "tell each other things." Her clammy hands. Where is she going with this. "And. They kiss sometimes." A hypothesis. Testing the water. If he's willing to give, but less willing to take, maybe there's a way for them to meet in the middle and take it slow.

"Do they."

***

Travelling with the Doctor involves a lot of running. There is regular running, where they just have to take off for whatever reason. There is "oh I've just discovered something, Clara" running, where the Doctor shuffles off somewhere and she has to hurry after him.

More often than not, though, there is scared running. Heart in chest, until her whole body becomes a beat and a breath and moving limbs and her only goal is to get back to the TARDIS alive.

This is one of those times. Corridors. His hand in hers. Gunshots. Yelling, clicking mandibles. Finally, the sight of the TARDIS - scrabbling hands on the door, gasping, getting it open - they tumble inside and he shuts the door, leaning against it. Relieved.

"This is not a kiss," he warns her before leaning in and landing somewhere near the vicinity of her lips.

"Not bad," she says, looking up at him. "You've got some things to learn, though."

They try again and she pulls away a little breathless. "Good job."

"Well, you are a good teacher." He seems to have forgotten that he has hands. They sort of hang at the end of his arms, limp.

"If you were one of my students, I'd give you a gold star."

"I should hope you don't go around kissing your students," he returns.

They both laugh awkwardly. In the silence that follows, he palms the back of his neck, mussing up the hair there. Then he says, "There is actually a planet with gold stars - we can go - if you'd like to see - "

Piloting the TARDIS: now that's something that comes naturally for him. She likes watching him do it because he makes it look so easy. Casual. Like he doesn't even have to think about it at all. He's still talking to her - describing the gold-star planet - as he flips levers, hits buttons. Such a grace to his movements. Almost dancing.

The planet is a little treasure trove. Stars fallen to the earth like scattered jewels. Clara picks one up and watches as it cools, shrinks in her palm. She attaches it to the lapel of his coat and she's definitely not imagining things when he smiles but tries to hide it.

***

They start kissing a lot. Kissing is such an easy way to talk to each other. Short kisses as a greeting or to say goodbye. At first, longer kisses are reserved for scary times, but eventually if a day has been particularly good - a narrow scrape, a new thing found - then a kiss is just the thing for it. Learning about each other: how to hold on tight in this different yet familiar way.

His open mouth and the tender muscle of his tongue, all vulnerable and new.

Clara always has to fight to keep herself from whimpering when he pulls away.

***

The Doctor is going on about how this particular planet only reflects less than one percent of any light that hits it. The only light that _is_ there is a dim red, which gives everything a weirdly intimate sort of glow. He's wearing the sonic sunglasses and examining a structure that has no clear purpose.

"Can you see anything in those?" Clara asks, following him under the overhang.

He's belligerent as usual - "I'm fine!" - until he runs into the steel bar that supports it. (Clara keeps her comments to herself.)

"Do you - I mean - could you - see me naked?" Clara blurts.

A pause, during which he pushes the glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

"I see what I want to see."

***

They're kissing for awhile against the TARDIS console, long and deep. In his territory again - territory that has now become hers. Celebrating the successful escape from a group of cannibalistic humanoid aliens that looked like they wanted to make good on their threats. Although the reason for their celebrating has become increasingly less significant, especially when he picks her up. They've figured out that it works better this way: either he holds her aloft or she ends up in his lap. Less contorting involved.

So maybe she's grinding a little. So what, it feels good. It almost feels even better when he gasps into her mouth. He's still got that gold star on his coat. It glows faintly under the TARDIS lights. She bears down a little harder and he makes a delightful "nnnghhh" noise. Thighs around his waist. Pressing, eager - his heartbeats are her heartbeats are - and she comes, moaning against his neck.

"I don't think _that's_ something that friends do," he comments, setting her down gently.

Clara looks up at him. A dare. "Well then. Maybe we're not friends." Uh-oh, her mouth is taking on a life of its own again. "I mean, we've already had not-hugs and not-kisses and now we've had not-sex."

She's grateful that he doesn't laugh at her. "So what, then?"

"Well - I'm yours, right. And you're mine. So together I guess that makes an 'us.'"

"'Us.'" The Doctor says this slowly, testing the word and the way it feels in his mouth. "I like that."

Clara smiles at him lopsidedly. "Me, too."


End file.
